No getting away from it

Some non-fiction books seem inevitable before they are even written. Dawkins on atheism, Hitchens on contrarianism, Ackroyd on London: with such works, the author is allied so closely to the subject that it is a question of when, not if, their full-length treatment of it will appear. Julian Barnes on death must fall into that category. Barnes’s preoccupation with old age and extinction is noticeable all the way back in his first novel, Metroland (1980), which he published at 34; even in his physical prime he was looking ahead towards the decay of the body and the end.

Nothing to Be Frightened Of, therefore, is the result of a lifetime’s thanatophobia. Barnes’s fear of death is not unique, of course; it is also not, as that ‘phobia’ label suggests, irrational — it can hardly be that, given the 100 per cent probability that our fear will be realised: being scared of death isn’t in the same quirky category as being scared of beards or good news. However, he does seem to have an acute case; how many other people, for instance, can admit to having woken up in late middle-age and, in a moment of concentrated frustration at mortality, begun thumping a pillow while groaning ‘oh no Oh No OH NO’? This is what the prospect of death does to Barnes, and this book is the product of his thoughts on the matter, once the pillow-thumping has abated.

Although death is the destination here, however, Barnes takes a meandering route towards it. Along the way are autobiographical sketches, the author’s views on art (and particularly on immortality through art), and a running exchange of opinions with his brother, the philosopher Jonathan Barnes, whose — well, you might say philosophical — attitude towards death provides a counterpoint to Barnes’s own.